Time

Time heals, they say.

Time certainly passes, and there is nothing anyone can do about that.  Each day takes me further away from when I had Toby.  Every morning, I feel guilty if he isn't my first thought when I wake up.

Time spent crying, of course that is an essential part of grieving, sometimes set off by the most trivial thing.  All the big things, I did them straight away, Toby's lead was put away with his collar as soon as we got back from the vet, his bowl put away the same evening, his coat taken off the radiator. 

But it is the little things.  Little routines that are suddenly missing.  Habits you didn't realise you had - none of the dogs need waking up when I get home now.  None of them need five minutes head start to get through their dinner.  None of the dogs need me to slow down in the field when they stop to sniff so they don't lose me, and none of them are too deaf to know when I want them to turn around, move over, or get their furry little backsides over here sharpish, or else.  None of them woof with the right tone, and none of them smell right when I bury my nose in their fur. 

But I am lucky I still have other dogs, I can only imagine how much worse it would be to go through this without them, they really do lick the tears away, Basil's tongue at warp licking speed, and then Alf nips my nose to make me smile.

Time spent thinking, talking, telling people about Toby, and the fact he has gone.  When I'm not at home I feel like he is still there, he must be, he always is, and he will be waiting for me when I get back.  Walking through the front door is like swallowing a concrete block, my stomach leaden, a hollow awareness that someone is missing.  For the first few days it took a real effort to put the key in the lock and go indoors to no Toby, and a couple of times I caught myself standing outside the door staring at it, as though it would bite me if I went too close.

Time spent looking at photos, some bring more tears, but many many more bring smiles.  I have been cold these last few days, shivering for no reason, but this is warming me from the inside with all the memories, thinking of all the good times.  Oh we had a lot of good times.  Time spent walking together, sunny, rainy, windy walks and his favourite, snowy walks.  I find some photos I had forgotten about, taken at the top of Glastonbury Tor, my three muskateers and me, very windswept.  And the next set shows the three of them flopped all over my parents' garden sunbathing, and me reading a book.  We spent a lot of time doing not much together.

And looking at photos makes me realise how time has passed.  How my gorgeous boy changed with the years, his eyes, his face, his coat.  Changes you don't notice day to day, it happens too gradually, and seeing young Toby again is a reminder of how much he had aged.  His character was always there - even in the very first Toby photo I sent home to my parents I can see that look, intense, staring at me, or more likely staring at a biscuit just out of camera shot.

In time his ashes will come back, and I will put them together with Prin's and Bob's.  Time will cover the boxes with dust, and from time to time I will brush it off.  But wherever I will go they will come with me, and I will always be glad I knew them.  My original pack of three, Toby my first, then Bob, and Prin my inheritance, they have shaped me, loved me, made me a good dog owner I hope, and taught me more about dogs than I ever knew there was to know.

Time gives perspective.  And I wouldn't change a thing.

Decisions

And then there comes a time when old age is no longer kind to a dog.

When creakiness becomes pain, stiffness becomes unsteadiness, absentmindedness becomes confusion, and sleep becomes a relief for you both.

The first stage in making any decision is realising that there is a decision to be made.  The first painful step on a difficult road.  And it is difficult every time, no matter how many times you have been down this path with a different dog by your side.  The guilt of considering there could be life without them, your loyal dog - how could you want that to be true?  How could that be a decision you even contemplate?

Good days and bad days, from when you first realise it may soon be time it could be weeks or months.  But when the soul of my dog looks out at me through those misty old eyes and I see no joy, no spark, no hope, and he asks to be set free, how can I refuse him this, when he has asked for so little all his life?

And so I stroke that soft head again, I think of all the things we have been to each other over the years, he has given me so much.  And my decision is made, not because I don't love my dog, but because I do.  How much do we love them, these dogs, so much, and how hard is it to let go, so very hard.

 

I know I will fall back on phrases it seems we dog-owners must have said since the beginning of time, "it's for the best, the right thing to do, it wasn't fair, he wasn't happy".  None of it seems enough, none of it expresses the hurt I feel, the loss, the emptiness.  None of it explains how he told me it was time, and how he asked me to be strong enough to make the choice, even though I feel like I am losing a part of myself.

Life will never be the same without him, my shadow.  The world will not stop turning, but it should.

And then I will let him go, but I will always remember.

Old dogs

For as long as I can remember dogs have grown old.  Death was never hidden from me as a child, and I have always known that muzzles go grey, dogs slow down, they don't live as long as we do and one day they die. 

I have very early memories of walking a docile old black Labrador called Bess through our village.  We were about the same height, and I was so proud to be allowed to hold the lead, although looking back she was the type of dog who just walked next to you regardless of what you did.  I remember trying to convince my dad that as the dog licence (!) was paid by someone I was related to then the dog must partly belong to me.  As we didn't have our own dog I desperately wanted just a fragment of that dog to be mine.  I'm sure I cried when she died, although I only saw Bess a few times each year.

I remember fondly many middle-aged and old dogs from my childhood, and I don't remember a single puppy.  We never had our own dog, but I had many friends in the village with dogs, and my uncles and aunts always had dogs.  I remember old dogs being treasured and loved, and mourned when they went.  I remember people going to such lengths to make their last days happy, and I remember many times those words of comfort "they had a good life" and knowing that that was important, above all else they had a good life.

It is a sad day when you first look at your dog and realise they have aged.  Not sad for the dog, they don't know, they don't think like that, and so often we say "oh he doesn't know he's old".  Age is kind to many dogs, they grow wise, they understand their families and their moods, they are comfortable in their surroundings, content in their daily routine of walks and food.  They owe us nothing, they are good dogs, one of the family.

A few stiff steps and a stretch to get the kinks out, a tad more effort needed to jump onto the sofa, but there will still be something that brings that old dog to life, and you see the joy in their face.  For Prin it was running on the beach - with occasional stops for rockpooling and to eat dead fishy things from the tideline.  For Bob, a squeaky toy.  For Toby, snow.  For Jess, balls.  Even after her sight completely went if she found a ball she would grab it and dance in front of you, then spit it out waiting to play again.  We got her one with a bell inside, so she could hear it when it rolled and she could still play her favourite game.

But from when we first see the grey hairs, notice the cloudy eyes, or realise a recall has gone unheard, we always know they have limited time left, and it makes us love them more fiercely, as though that will keep them with us for longer. 

I have lost count of the number of times I have looked at one of my oldies sleeping and my heart has missed a beat as I think they are too still, not breathing, then a tap or a shake and they blearily open their eyes, no idea you were home already and the youngsters had barked.  It takes a few seconds for them to focus on you, recognise you, and then they get their fuss and greet you.  They were just away in dream land, sleeping their days away, comfy and warm, and I smile with relief and love, just glad they are still here.

I've never lost one of mine in their sleep, although I know it happens, and I am torn between thinking it would be best for them, hardest for me.

Hello 2012

I really can't remember the last time I made a new year's resolution.

Most of us know we "should be" healthier, leaner, more organised, but the truth is guilt is a hollow motivator, and without true motivation all these resolutions are worthless.

So why is 2012 different? I think because this resolution is not for me - it will benefit me - but this one is for the dogs.

So here it is...

5 minutes of quality time per dog per day.

One to one, no phone, no laptop, no tv, (and this one is hardest) no other dogs, just me. Simple as that.